Making it Work
by wildcard47
Summary: Marshall's value to the CIA is proven in the most unlikely way imaginable.


**A/N: This story came to life after I watched far too many Bravo marathons for my own good and then read an Alias fic by yahtzee63 over on LJ. (Disclaimer: I'm not J.J. Abrams and I don't own Alias.)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

2002

Director Kendall gives a weary sigh as he flips through the last few pages of Marshall Flinkman's file. Task Force needed him to finish all preliminaries before Flinkman could be cleared for Agency work. Last on the docket were a few lingering questions about his many technical creations.

As brilliant as the guy was, it had been a long day of questioning.

"So," Kendall starts, his eye catching a recent addition to the file, "you've designed mission equipment around an agent's clothes?"

Flinkman shifts nervously in his chair. "Actually, uh, sir, it started completely by accident. Well, not by accident, per se, although one could suppose Mr. Sloane's suggestion to compress a crypto-ignition key into the pocket lining of one of Syd's --- er, Agent Bristow's, I don't know if I should really call her Syd -- um, jackets...was accidental? In a sort of small way, you know, kind of movie-ish, right place at the right time? Actually, isn't that a....song? I mean, I'm pretty sure I heard someone....singing last night on the radio and it was all bluesy, kind of Southern, deep-voiced, 'Ah was in the riight plaaaace! Must've been the wrooong tiiiime!' Really catchy, uh, tune and it sort of reminds me of this thing in high school where....wait a minute, what was I saying?"

A _very_ long day.

"The jacket," Kendall answers, deadpan. Even his ex-wife was never this chatty, for God's sake.

"Oh! Right. Yeah, I, uh, actually think Mr. Sloane might have been kidding with that idea, but I thought I'd try it anyway. I mean, why not? But it took me a looong time to figure that thing out, I mean a _long_ time. So long, it was like...you know that scene, in Forrest Gump, where they're all young and with the bullies, and everyone's yelling in slow motion like 'Forrreeessstttt' and Tom Hanks is flat-out running, he goes for like twenty miles and....starts on that trek where he runs around the country....he's on TV and it's been like three years, or twelve, and---"

"Can we get to the point?" Kendall snaps.

"Oh! Of course, Mr...Director Kendall, you want the straight and skinny! Not the durm und strang! Not that you wouldn't...want everything, of course; I mean, it's kind of your job, you're always seeking the truth, maybe in a Moulin Rouge way only you're not....bohemian...."

Kendall shakes his head. He has no idea where this is going. Better to move on. "Next question. It says here in your debrief that, six weeks ago, you and Agent Bristow were able to escape your captors through a window on the 47th floor. How did that happen?"

"You mean, what happened? Because I had this...programmed Pong...and then Syd came in and was all--" Flinkman inexplicably puts on a surfer voice -- "'I know kung fu'" -- "and then we threw the guy's wheelchair through the window and luckily I was wearing my jacket with the parachute lining, not to mention the tandem sling, I can't even tell you how handy that was, I'm attaching slings to all of my belts now, just in case, I mean, you never can be too careful--"

Kendall leans forward, unsure if he had heard that last bit correctly. "Hold on. You compressed and sewed an entire working parachute into your jacket lining?"

"Th-the lining? Yeah."

"Can you duplicate that with tactical gear?" Between Flinkman's intelligence, the more-than-impressive gadgets he'd created and now this, Kendall's inclined to think the guy's a team necessity if they're going to take down SD-6.

"Uh, definitely! I-I mean, of course." Flinkman's eyes widen. "W-wait a second, does that mean I'm hired?"

**

2009

The new techs file quietly into the moderate-sized office, squished together in a small gaggle like a group of nervous schoolchildren. It didn't help that much of their foot room was occupied by two inflatable couches, a full set of drums and an econo-sized drum barrel of gummy bears.

"Agent Flinkman?" a woman at the head of the group volunteers.

"Yelloooo!" comes an answer from across the room, behind a mountain of computer monitors.

"Director Chase told us to see you about some sort of workshop?"

"W-workshop? Oh, you mean the...tactical gear thing...hang on, just gotta get this little wire connected and -- voila! That's done. Okey dokey, now let me just squeeze out of here--"

A dusty, young-looking man emerges out of the rubble pile, wiping a pair of magnifiers on his shirt front as he crosses the room.

He smiles at them. "Oh, hey, look at you guys, all tiny and nervous! Sort of like babies except, well, you can speak and you work here and you don't grow up and decide to play pee-wee football instead of joining Math League....not that exercise is bad, you all seem pretty fit, but...come on, what is that about, Mitch, I don't even....know…" He sees some confused faces in the crowd. "…But that's not....entirely the point."

Marshall clears his throat. "So, Director Chase said this was a design workshop, and she's kind of right, we're going to be building equipment specs off of some other....things, but I think this time I want to focus on integrating technology into an agent's tactical gear, sort of like a Project Runway deal except not as super swank, haute couture, that sort of thing."

"We're designing _clothes_?" groans a man in the back.

Marshall looks thoughtful for a moment. "Actually, ah, not so much clothes as clothing paired with technical gear, though I should mention there won't be any weird challenges for you to make clothes out of, uh, paint, or....money, and of course we won't have any famous people here, per se, unless we bring back a few CIA celebrities but even then you might not be so...thrilled..."

"Wait a second," another woman raises a hand, "I...can't sew." Several of the other techs nod in fervent agreement.

"Oh!" Marshall exclaimed, realizing he'd forgotten to include that particular point. "I -- wasn't sure, really -- didn't.....uh, d-don't worry about it. I couldn't actually sew at the beginning of all this, unless, uh, you count my mom making me needlepoint....every Christmas. And even then it wasn't really sewing because I couldn't really see...what I was doing and all the thread got tangled and there was kind of this ball of yarn...component to the stitches..."

"Anyway -- he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts -- "you'll, uh, learn. It'll be fine. And I-I'll be there to help you, stand over your shoulder, you know -- he mimed putting on glasses and wagged a finger in a warning fashion -- "Make it work, guys!"

Returning to normal, "Or, uh....just....don't screw up. Please."


End file.
